


Can't Live Without You

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:57:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: This might be a bit much but can you do a prompt where root thinks shaw is gone for good and is going to end it all but shaw comes out of no where and confesses her feelings and saves root :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Live Without You

The gun’s to her head, and the safety’s off.

___________\ If Your Number’s Up /__________

_It felt like days since Root had seen the sun, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she locked herself up in her room all week. There was a window that let sunlight filter in through a thin layer of dust that clung to the glass panes. She hadn’t been up to cleaning yet. Instead, she sat on the floor in the center of her bedroom, thinking over the past four months. They sounded like four years and felt like four centuries._

* * *

 

_At first, she could at least pretend to handle things. Sure, she was darker than ever, her eyes as cold as her heart and her words as sharp as the knife in her boot, but how could she not be?_ I sent her to Hell, after all. _Past this, she could still fight. Her anger and fresh determination was gasoline, and her reason was the lit match in a dark room. And, boy, were there flames._ Like a four alarm fire in an oil refinery.

_Then, as one day turned to three, and the people closest to her were giving up hope, she found the doors cemented shut around her, leaving her with nothing but her fire. She became reckless, rebellious- throwing caution to the wind in exchange for a higher caliber and another can of paint to draw targets on her enemies. And, despite Harold Finch’s pleas for her to think of her own safety, she couldn’t. She had no safety. There was no sanctuary._

_As the oxygen became slim in her sealed cell of insanity, the fire roared with a new zeal- her last stand._ It payed off _. She called. It was a trap- she’d always known that- but hearing her voice again and seeing her through that window four stories down was enough for Root. It was enough for the flames to continue to burn, keeping her lit._

 _But the months continued with not another trace of her, and Root couldn’t hold out forever. She would wait at the ends of the world and until the end of time if there was even a sliver of hope that who she saw two months previous was still here. There hadn’t been word._ Not a peep _. She couldn’t be picked up by any speaker, camera, or satellite- Root couldn’t lie to herself anymore; couldn’t pretend. Sameen Shaw was dead to the world. The flames died with her, leaving Root in an airless room, engulfed by darkness._

_Her phone rang for the umpteenth time that week, and she was tempted to ignore it again. However, for some reason she could not explain, she stood stiffly from her cross-legged position, walking numbly to her dresser. Reaching a hand out, she realized with little interest that the black polish on her nails was cracked and flaking away._

_“Hello?” She monotoned into the cell, the only change in her voice being the slightest raise in pitch to signify it a question._

_“Oh, Miss. Groves.” Harold’s voice came to her in a relieved wave, every emotion of concern and care for her projected out in those three words. “We’ve been worried about you. We weren’t sure if something had happened while you were working on a number or-”_

_“I’m_ fine _, Harold,” she interrupted, tired. He stopped, taking in her words._

_“What’s happened to you?” He asked her in worry, concern spilling out through the speaker. From somewhere in the background, Root could hear John Reese’s voice call out to her._

_“Where’ve you been?” accompanied by Lionel Fusco’s, “Hey, Cuckoo Clock, you planning on visiting us any time soon?” Root didn’t laugh with good nature at their affection; she didn’t even smile._

_“Do you need me for something important?” Root asked into the phone flatly._

_“Yes,” Harold told her. “It’s urgent. Please, get here as soon as you can.” Without saying goodbye, Root hung up. She changed into dark jeans and a black v-neck tee shirt. Putting some makeup on quickly, she grabbed the paper she had had in front of her and placed it in the top drawer of her dresser alongside a pen. Then, after a moment’s deliberation, she snatched it back, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into a waste bin._  It was blank anyway _. With her phone and gun, Root unlocked her door with the slowness of a criminal unready to see death row on the other side. She slipped her shoes on at the door, then left, headed for the subway station._

_________\ We’ll Find You /_________

_Everywhere Root looked, she saw Shaw. Walking down the crowded city streets, every murmur that met her ear was Shaw’s, and every pony tail was hers, just an inch out of reach. She swore she could hear Shaw’s laugh; see her smile flash through the crowd. It was infuriating, bringing Root to the brink of a mental breakdown with each step. She didn’t want to be outside because, with every face that wasn’t Shaw’s, her heart was one beat further towards knowing it never would be._

_She came to the station’s entrance, a cloud of melancholy holding her in a constant darkness. As she traveled down to their group’s terminal, the memories hit her harder than they ever had. It was like seeing a ghost._

_Root could see everyone sitting around as they used to, preparing for a number, their day job, or just wanting to chat. She could envision Harold typing at his desk; John cleaning his gun as he sits with one leg over the other in the abandoned subway car; Bear laying out on his bed; and Shaw pacing around- needing something to do other  than sit all cooped up- speaking aloud about any sort of game plan or idea to anyone listening. Root was always listening. She saw Shaw’s glowering eyes as she took a sip from Shaw’s drink, and the devious smirk that curled onto her lips as she broke free of Root’s handcuffs. Root could feel Shaw’s weight in her arms as she half-drug her to the station’s bench after incapacitating her. She was carrying a heavier weight now._

_Stepping into the panopticon, Root looked about the yellow-tinted space. The sight before her left a stabbing pain in her heart: Harold at his dest, John cleaning his weapon, Bear sleeping soundly- but no Sameen Shaw in sight._  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

_She shuffled forward, heels making a small scuff against the tiled floor, and three sets of eyes instantly darted up at her. Harold stood at once, nearly tipping over his chair, just looking at her. His eyes were drawn wide in surprise as he sorted out her state, but quickly melted warmly at the sight of her._

_“Miss. Groves,” he greeted with an awe in his voice. “It’s so_ good _to see you again.” Root looked at him impassively before trying to smile. It came out a cross between a grimace and a sneer._

_“You said there was something important?” Root asked, and his eyes flickered with a half second of unease._

_“Um,_ well _…” Harold fumbled, looking back at his computer. “I_ may _have been a little quick to call it_ urgent _,” he mumbled, and Root let out an irritated sigh._

 _“You act like being cared about is a_ bad _thing,” John said as he walked forward, a good natured laugh in his smooth voice. He put a comforting hand on Root’s shoulder, looking at her with eyes that said they understood. She looked away from him quickly, not able to stand the intensity of his gaze. “Lionel should be here any minute.”_

_“Where did he go?” Root questioned, although her voice conveyed an overall lack of interest._

_“Coffee.” Detective Lionel Fusco’s voice met them from the entrance as he sauntered forward with four Styrofoam cups in a holder. He placed them on Harold’s desk, then handed a steaming cup to each of his companions. Root took hers, looking down at her feet with nothing more than a microscopic nod to show her thanks._

_The Styrofoam was hot on her fingers, and the liquid scorched her tongue and throat; however, it did nothing to melt her frozen heart. For a minute, the four stood in absolute silence, holding their drinks like statues. Then, Fusco cut through the thick silence._

_“It’s good to have you back in the game,” he told her, nudging the shoulder opposite the one John’s hand rested on. “We’ve been real understaffed around here.” As soon as the words left his mouth, the other men’s eyes snapped straight to him. John’s held a warning; Harold’s held murder. Fusco, swallowing hard, took a long swing of his coffee awkwardly._

_“Thanks,” Root responded meekly, eyes focused on the steam curling up from the lid’s small opening. She felt the heat of it brushing against her face, traveling up and up until it evanesced just above her head. She closed her eyes, not able to stand the light in the room or the creaking sounds of the old space or the sight of these three men handling everything so well._ Like not a god damn thing happened.

_She thought of faking it- to share their normalcy with a mask. She’d done it before in the months leading up to here, but she couldn’t stand it anymore. Being strong was hard, and her muscles were screaming from the constant battle. Everything was heavy. Her eyelids too heavy to open; her feet too heavy to move; her lips too heavy to smile._

_An assortment of noises from the laptop made Root open her eyes at last, and Harold scampered back to his PC, leaning over the chair to read the screen. Fusco’s eyes followed Harold, but Root could feel John’s gaze as it remained locked to her. She felt as if he was reading her every movement, studying every flicker of her eyes and each twitch of her lip. She rolled her jaw in a small circle awkwardly, waiting for Harold to speak. Turning around, his eyes had an air of annoyance in them._

_“There’s a number,” he told the team flatly, his mouth cast down in a disproving slant. Although he looked at each of them in turn, his eyes rested longest on Root, where they became rimmed with sympathy. They all stood around a moment more, then Reese animated._

_“I guess that’s our cue,” John said, looking over to Lionel. Then, dropping to Root, he added, “Wanna join us?” After searching his eyes, Root shook her head._

_“I have, uh, something I need to take care of.” He nodded, leaning in closer to her ear._

_“If there ever comes a time you_ don’t _want to take care of it_ alone _,” he whispered in her, “you know where to find me.” With that, he pulled away, squeezed Root’s shoulder, then left with Fusco. She listened to their footsteps until they faded to ghosts, then put the coffee down with mechanic arms. Looking back up, she found Harold watching her._

 _“_ What _,” she snarled viciously, old anger welling up in her at seeing Harold. Harold, the one who told her to stop looking for Shaw; Harold, the one who told her to move on from trying to save her, just to nearly killing himself doing the same thing over a woman; Harold, the one who couldn’t stand the sight of her at the time she needed him most. It made her melancholy at first; however, as the months drug on it only turned her terribly bitter. Harold Finch wasn’t the only one she was infuriated at, though. There was also the Machine._

 _The Machine refused to give them any information after the third day, not to mention it was a complete disaster. She led them not to Shaw, but to a captured woman, costing them the most crucial hours to Shaw’s abduction. After all of that, She too told Root to give up the search. And- just as any other person who holds a space for a higher power- she started to lose her faith. The Machine kept radio silence on all things of Shaw, never answering a question or tracing back a single lead._ Until I nearly fell off a God forsaken building. _But even then, winning her game of chicken with the AI, the Machine admitted to failing Sameen. Root could only think of what that meant. She didn’t like the demons that crawled into her imagination._

_“Where have you been?” Harold’s voice was soft, but not as empathetic as before._

_“It doesn’t matter,” Root responded tactlessly. He sighed, dropping his hands down heavily to his sides._

_“I understand that you cared for Miss. Shaw, but don’t you think it is time for this grieving to stop?” At the mention of Shaw’s name, Root winced, the pain of hearing it aloud bringing a pinprick of salty water to the corner of her eye. His words were like razor blades, cutting into her skin and spilling blood turned black with spite and thin with loss._

_“_ Cared _?” Root asked incredulously, words biting back. “I_ cared _?”_

 _“There hasn’t been any sign of her in_ ages _,” Harold retorts, voice rising. “We have to assume that-”_

 _“No,” Root cut him off in a fatally low voice. She shook her head. “No. Unlike_ you _, I don’t ’_ assume _’ that our friends are dead because we haven’t heard from them.”_

 _“What could they_ possibly _be keeping Sameen for?!” Harold burst, and Root pressed her lips together tight, swallowing hard and furrowing her brow together in unspeakable agony. Her jaw tightened, fists clenching at her sides. Harold seemed to have noticed the words that have escaped him, and how morbid they sounded, for he started back up. “I didn’t mean-”_

 _“I’m going home,” Root spit choppily. Scratchy. Like she’d been screaming for an eternity._  I have _, she thinks frostily to herself,_ but it’s all been in my head _. Her anger is rising like bile in her throat, burning like the sun and as dangerous as sulfuric acid. Harold slumped down before her, eyes flooding with guilt and apologies._

 _“I’ll walk you there,” he said to her before grabbing his fedora and beige trench coat. “_ Komen _!” Harold called briskly to Bear, who jumped up and galloped forward. Harold attached his leash, and then they were off._

_The walk was cold and silent. Root was left to her own musings, all of them dark with terrorizing hands and tainted with poison tongues. She barely noticed her apartment building materialize before her, and was only brought aware of it by Harold’s gentle hand steering her to the right._

_The elevator ride was cold and silent. No music played through the broken speaker, and although they’d escaped the gray skies and chilling winds, Root’s malice left the space feeling twenty degrees below. Harold pulled his jacket collar up higher about his neck, and Root cold feel the ice on her lips. Her bare arms felt the urge to break out in goosebumps, but her mind found it too much effort._ Everything is too much effort these days.

 _When the stainless elevator door slid open on greaseless tracks, a wave of warmth hit them both, circling the elevator and Harold’s muscles relaxed. Root didn’t even notice the change. Bear cantered out first, tongue lolling as he took in all the new scents of the building. The two adults filed out wordlessly behind, traveling the small distance to Root’s apartment. Her place was nearly butted up against the apartment building beside her- it was a miracle the windows on her side of the building even received sunlight. Yet, as they continued their way down the hall, they were bathed in the surprising brightness, throwing shadows to the opposing wall. Root watched them-_ a man, a woman, and a dog _\- and thought of being a different person._

_They came to Root’s door, and she pulled her keys out numbly. The lock was old, screeching as it turned, but she barely heard it past the static in her head._

_“Would you like me to come in?” Harold asked, and the static silenced slightly; just enough for her to register the words. She turned to face him, getting lost in his blue eyes._

_“No, you should go.”_

_“Are you sure?” He persisted, a twinge of hope to his verging pitiful tone. “We could have lunch?”_

_“Not hungry.”_

_His lips scrunched together and his eyes hardened. “When’s the last time you ate?” Root forced herself to think back through the countless hours she’d remained locked in her room; all of them blending together and bleeding like ink. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders. He sighed._

_Then, he stepped forward, drawing her into a tight embrace. Root could feel herself cracking in his hold, her very last wall crumbling to dust. She could feel her lip twitch as the agony she held in fought to force its way out, but she concealed like a dangerous secret. Like it was a delicate bomb, and letting it slip from her grasp would make it explode, blowing them both to pieces. Nonetheless, she wrapped her arms lowly around his back, letting her chin rest on his shoulder as she stared blankly at the far wall._

_“Take care of yourself, Samantha,” he told her, voice devastatingly loud from his proximity, and he pulled her in tighter before- reluctantly- falling away. She gave him a weak but sincere smile, eyes drawn up in pain, then retreated to the safety of her blackened apartment. Tossing her phone on the kitchen table and kicking off her shoes, she headed back to her bedroom, not even bothering to lock the door behind her._

________\ Can’t Live Without You /________

Root can feel the icy metal barrel against her scalp and shudders. Harold’s words ring back to her for the then ten thousandth time.

_‘What could they possibly be keeping Sameen for?!’_

_Nothing_ , Root thinks to herself, face contorting in anguish.  _By now, they’d have what they wanted from her or they wouldn’t._  If they did, she was useless to them, and if they didn’t, they never would. The thought is too strong for her, and a wave of nausea swirls in her stomach, making her sick. From her seated position on the edge of the mattress, she hunches over, retching into the trashcan beside her bed.

Sitting back up, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, throat burning with acid and the promise of oncoming tears. Her hand is trembling, getting pieces of her hair tussled before the gun, and she swallows the sour taste from her mouth. Licks her lips. Closes her eyes.

 _I can’t do this,_  she thinks to herself, and a tear finally wells out from between her eyelashes.  _I can’t go through another day like this._ She thought she’d been to the infernal regions and back, but she’d never known a Hell like this. A quick death would be a privilege compared to the constant pain she’s in now. There is a medicine for colds; there are casts for fractured bones; but there is no painkiller for a broken heart. Root’s heart is broken past the point of being put back together. She wanted nothing more than to rip whatever remained of it from her chest, to stomp it to dust and defenestrate it and feel nothing ever again.

 _But that’s the problem._ She feels everything. She feels the hand of anger as it squeezes the air from her; she feels the sadness that drowns her in tormenting waves and the depression that clamps like weights to her feet, dragging her to the farthest depths of her darkest mind. She feels the hysteria of slowly going insane; she feels the loneliness and despondence like wolves ripping away at her skin and clothes, leaving her cold and exposed.  _And soon_ , she thinks to herself wickedly, _I’ll feel happiness at getting away from this all._

She’d never thought about if there was a heaven out there, but she decides that she doesn’t care.  _As long as it’s not here, it’s heaven enough for me._  Swallowing hard with more tears betraying her as they lazily make warm trails down her cold cheeks, she brings her quaking finger to the trigger, lips pressed determinedly together.

_In three, two, o-_

“We’ll,  _this_  isn’t the homecoming parade I was expecting.” Root freezes, eyes bursting open wide at the voice. Shaw’s voice. With the slowness of disbelief, Root’s eyes slide to the door, where her heart stops beating.

 _Shaw_.

 _But it can’t be her,_ Root reminds herself with a pang of sorrow.  _It’s not possible._ This figment Shaw steps further into the room, closing the door behind her.

“So this is what you’ve been up to while I was gone?” She asks, walking casually into the room- as if she’s taking a stroll through a park rather than through a dark room with a woman holding a gun to her temple. The phantom laughs. “If you wanna die, okay, but die for something that you  _love_.” Root chokes, a sob catching in her throat as she curses her mind for being this cruel.

“I am- I- I was,” Root sputters out, confused and smarting from the pain of the apparition before her.

“Wow,” Shaw says, tilting her head back in mild surprise. “That’s actually pretty pathetic.” Root’s jaw drops incredulously, but then a different thought snaps her from it.

“I- I don’t understand- how did you-”

“And in front of an _open window?_ ” Shaw interjects, walking past Root to the sill. “It’s bad enough you want to paint the walls; no need to traumatize your neighbors.” Root is taken aback by the absolute calm cruelty she has in helping Root with this. _But it’s not really her,_  Root reminds herself forcefully.  _This is all in your head._  She wants to pull it now, but seeing Shaw- real or not- is something she can’t just leave behind. She feels a coldness on her back as the blinds are shut, leaving the room cast in a muggy gray. Root follows this mentally regenerated Shaw as she walks back to the door, a slight limp in her step as she holds her left hand slightly closer to her chest.

“You didn’t lock the door either,” figment Shaw tells her, clicking the lock over. “Anyone can just walk in.  _Hell_ , I did.”

“Wh-…” Root trails off, confused tears mixing with ones tainted in horrible loss. She follows Shaw’s movements still as she walks up directly in front of Root, no more than a foot and a half away. From here, Root can see the split in her lip and the gash just above her eyebrow. And everything she’d missed. She takes in Shaw’s dark brown eyes and every contour of her face. She’s close enough to touch, and Root almost reaches out; however, the thought that her hand may merely grasp air is too much for her to bear. _If this is fake, just let me pretend it’s not._

The apparition of Shaw leans forward slightly, eyes scrutinizing the gun. She clucks her teeth. “No silencer?” She asks distastefully. “You’re  _killing_  me.” Shaw’s eyes cloud minutely, brow furrowing. “Wait, no, that probably wasn’t the right choice of-… never mind,” she says, shaking her head with thought. “Doesn’t matter anyway; the people around here wouldn’t know the difference between a gunshot and an ice cream truck.”

Root watches this almost-Shaw as she places her hands on her hips, looking about the room with a satisfied sigh.

“Okay, we’re all set,” Shaw tells her. “Now, you have two options. One: pull the trigger. Two: hand me the gun so I can  _smack_  you upside your idiot  _head_  with it.” Root deliberates a moment, bleary eyes making a watery blur of everything; yet, she can see Shaw’s outline alongside an outstretched hand, palm up.

With a trembling hand, Root shakily brings it down and out to her. Shaw takes it from her slowly, then- once she has it entirely in her possession- does her best to disarm it with her right hand, taking it apart until it is useless pieces.

Shaw drops each to the ground one at a time until the gun is nothing but spare parts, and with each clink of metal on Root’s wooden floor, she comes to the realization more and more that this is real. That Shaw is here, right in front of her, eighteen inches away. Just as Shaw drops the last piece, Root springs up from her seat on the edge of the bed, flinging her arms around Shaw’s neck as she lets a sob out into Shaw’s hair she’d been holding in since the stock exchange. It is loud and ugly and painful.

Shaw is forced back a step from Root throwing herself her way, but- as soon as her balance is regained- she encases Root in her arms. She can feel Root’s nose pressed forcefully to her the side of her neck, her shoulder already feeling damp, and allows her head to rest on Root’s shoulder, her unmanageable hair smothering Shaw entirely.

“And I thought  _I_  had a rough couple months,” Shaw laughs out jokingly, secretly elated at being back after all this time.

“How did you get here?” Root asks, her voice a muffled slur between harsh, tearful heaving that wracks her entire body.

“We can talk about that in the morning,” Shaw assures her quietly, and Root hugs her harder. She hears Shaw groan, and thinks she can feel a bone slide under Shaw’s skin; however, it doesn’t make her loosen her grip any. She just stands there, taking Shaw in from sight to smell to touch to sound.

“Not the morning,” Root tells her. “No, I don’t want you leaving.” Shaw lets out a pleasurable chuckle.

“I’m not leaving, Root.”

“I mean here; I don’t want you leaving  _here_.”

“I’m not going to,” Shaw reassures her. Then, in a lower voice that barely blocks out the heartache, she says, “I’m sticking with you.” This sets free another wail, and Shaw’s shirt feels as if she walked through the rain to get here, not the dry-skied city. “I went to the station first; thought everyone would be there. When they told me your state of mind… I got here as quick as I could.” Past the storm Shaw holds her hands, she can feel Root’s weak smile against her.

“I’m glad you did,” she replies in an almost inaudible voice.

“I never thought I’d admit this aloud,” Shaw says after a minute, then stops to regain herself. The choked up relief seems impossible to conceal now. “But,  _God_ , I missed you.” Shaw presses herself closer to Root with the words, her nose coming to the place between the side of Root’s neck and collar bone.

“I missed you, Shaw,” Root says back, voice cracking. She’s happy- more than that- she’s ecstatic, overjoyed, relieved. Complete. But she can’t help the tears that spill out like a waterfall. After bottling the pain up for so long, it had to come out somehow. Shaw stiffens microscopically.

“I come back from being tortured and beaten for information with three broken ribs, a dislocated wrist, and a sprained ankle, and I only get a ’ _Shaw_ ’?” Shaw asks with fake indignation. Root, in spite of herself, laughs. It’s something Root hadn’t heard from herself in ages, and thought she’d never hear again.

“ _Sam_ …” Root corrects amiably, the name like finding religion after years of blasphemy on her tongue.  Shaw smiles at that, the sound making every ache of every broken bone melt away.

“That’s better.”

With that being said, Shaw abruptly pushes Root back out to arm’s length, looking Root straight in her shocked eyes with her own furious and serious pair. She takes in the makeup smeared around Root’s eyes and the red of her nose.

“And I swear to  _God_ , Root, if you  _ever_  pull something like that again I will personally  _kick your ass_  into the next  _millennia_. Do you  _understand_  me?” Root peers into Shaw’s stern eyes, feels the strong grip Shaw has on her arms and the deadly sneer pulling on her lips, and nods. Slowly at first as she processes, then in vigorous agreement. “As long as we’re understood,” she mutter’s, then draws Root back in close. Root is instantly blasted once more with the overwhelming presence of Shaw, and loses herself in it, allowing herself to melt away in Shaw’s arms. “There’s so much I have to tell you,” Shaw whispers into her ear, letting her hand slide down Root’s back, and Root blissfully shudders.

“When?” She asks in an equally quite tone, letting her arms lace around Shaw’s neck, head resting against Shaw’s as the tears finally stop their descent.

“Tomorrow.” Opening her eyes, Root spots the thin, elongated mirror on the far wall. In it, she sees her own, tearstained features and Shaw’s worse for wear attire and slightly knotted hair, and smiles at the reflection.

 _Tomorrow_ , Root thinks, letting Shaw’s voice echo the promise in her head.  _There’s tomorrow._


End file.
